Aether Rising

Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Wharfside Dungeon, 12 March 1871

Patrick had filled in the ghost of Louisa’s mother as much as he could, leaving out the parts about his and Louisa’s interlude on the airship, of course. The ghostly Maureen had nodded and gave him a look he remembered from his own mother, that she could tell he left out some details, but she didn’t pry.

“You need to sleep,” she’d told him. “I’ll watch over you. Then tomorrow, once you’re rested, we shall discuss your escape.”

Patrick had wanted to argue, then ask more, but exhaustion overtook him. He woke the next morning with a start at the first lightening of the room. The lamps had been turned off, but as soon as he sat, they flamed to flickering life. He looked over to see Maureen standing and watching the aether, which hadn’t changed. Neither had she except to become slightly more solid-looking, but when she moved away from the aether, she returned to her wispy state.

“How did you sleep?” she asked.

Patrick answered “Fine, you?” before his brain caught up with the situation.

Maureen laughed, and it sounded like Louisa’s except with more hollowness than mirth. “I haven’t slept in a decade, and even then, it was fitful.” She twisted her skirt. “I haven’t slept well since my husband was lost at sea.”

“Wouldn’t moving on help you find him?” Patrick asked, then added, “Sorry, I’m a daft twit in the morning. That wasn’t tactful of me.”

She looked at him from underneath furrowed brows but didn’t say anything. Patrick knew what that meant—he had better say the right thing, and fast.

“What I mean is that obviously you have a reason for staying—Louisa.”

Maureen nodded. “It was stupid of me to think I could secure her future by marrying Parnaby. I didn’t see until it was too late that he’d married me because of her ability. And then he got me out of the way once I recognized his deception.”

“Wait.” Patrick rubbed his eyes. “Parnaby killed you?”

“Yes, and I was so shocked it knocked me back here to the space that used to be my laboratory.” She gestured around them.

“This isn’t a nice place to work,” Patrick said.

“Yes, but it’s secure and secret.” She sighed. “After Arthur was lost at sea, I worked first as a housekeeper and then as an apothecary for Parnaby. I had some knowledge of herbs and such from my people, and he caught me one day treating Louisa for her sensitive stomach.”

“What did he want with an apothecary?”

Fear flickered over the ghost’s face so quickly Patrick thought it must be a trick of the lighting or the aether, but she then replied, “He was interested in ways to make people do and say things they wouldn’t otherwise. That’s what attracted him to Paul Farrell, who took over after me. He has a special truth smoke he uses, but once Parnaby found out about Louisa, he set Paul up to do other things. He worked down here, too, or tried to.”

Patrick could only imagine what she had done to her replacement. He knew it was rude to ask, but he had to know the answer to one more question in order to gauge the danger he might be in.

“And then how did you die?”

Once again, Maureen surprised him by her lack of emotion. “A sudden illness that wasn’t treated properly, or perhaps my own herbs being turned against me. I don’t know.”

Patrick looked at the empty dishes from the previous evening’s dinner, and his own stomach jumped. Would he be subject to the same? Any illness he would develop would likely be attributed to the conditions he was being kept in.

“And what was that about helping me to get out of here?”

“Now that I have seen and felt the aether, I need time to think about what will be best for both of us.”

The scrape of the door opening echoed down the stairwell, and Maureen disappeared.

“Wait.” Patrick reached toward where she had stood, but his fingertips met only regular air without a trace of chill or anything that would indicate a ghost had stood there. He’d met otherworldly beings before, and they all had their own agendas, but this one stymied him.

Morlock accompanied another guard, and they both glanced at the aether but not long enough for Patrick to take advantage of the distraction.

“Glad to see you’ve given up and are getting to work,” Morlock said and kept his pistol aimed at Patrick. The other guard set the tray he carried on the table beside the dinner dishes and traded them out with efficient gestures, leaving Patrick with some rashers and eggs he would have to eat with his fingers and the toast provided. At least there was a cup of coffee. Patrick guessed it was lukewarm, but he would take it.

“We’ll be back to check on you tonight,” Morlock said. “Work well, and maybe the boss will reward you.”

“And what about lunch?” Patrick asked. “You can’t expect a man to work for twelve hours straight without sustenance.”

“Save some of yer breakfast if yer that worried,” Morlock growled. He kept the gun on Patrick until the other guard had reached the top of the stairs and yelled, “Made it, come on.”

“No funny business, you hear?” Morlock backed up the stairs, and Patrick forced himself to approach the food slowly, testing each smell as it reached his nostrils for aspects too bitter or strange. The eggs had flecks of green in them, but when he isolated one on his tongue, he found it to be a chive. Eventually his stomach wouldn’t let him dally any longer, and he wolfed down all but a piece of the toast and a rasher, which he saved for his lunch. He turned from his meal to find Maureen watching him.

“I remember food,” she said. “I miss it almost as much as I do Louisa. What does Parnaby want with you?”

Patrick sighed. “Other than a more efficient aether device that combines the therapeutic one with a system like we made in Paris? I wish I knew what his real intentions are.” He studied the ghost. “Do you think Louisa does?”

“She likely doesn’t, but more because she’s afraid to ask. I’m afraid I did too well with raising her to appreciate the comforts she has with him. I’ve also wondered why she doesn’t question more to herself.”

“Aye, she’s too comfortable.” Patrick moved to the workbench and picked up a length of rubber hose. “Now if you’ll pardon me, I have work to do. Unless you’re going to help me escape.”

She disappeared again, and Patrick knew he had his answer.

“Fecking ghost,” he muttered and got to work.

Louisa thought she had never been to the industrial area of town before, but once they passed the river, the ball of determination in the middle of her chest expanded into a glow of nostalgia. She couldn’t explain how, but the buildings they passed had an air of familiarity, although shabbier and older like a beloved relative returned from a long, exhausting journey.

The pang of loss at seeing the burned-out shell of one store made her avert her gaze from the steamcoach window, and she noticed Parnaby watching her.

“What are you thinking?” he asked. It was an open enough question, but Louisa knew there was a right and wrong answer.

“There are surprisingly few steam vehicles here,” she said. Not a lie exactly—she had noticed their absence.

Parnaby nodded. “It’s the coal shortage. When it’s cheaper to have a mule or horse than a steam engine, you know things are dire.”

“And yet you’re bringing gaslight here.” She hadn’t really talked to him about it much, what they were doing there.

“Sometimes you have to distract people from what they don’t have with what they want more, in this case light for safety, although there has been some resistance.”

“I can’t imagine from whom.” Louisa gestured to the window, through which she saw a man lying on the sidewalk. She hoped he was asleep. “It’s too easy to become a victim in the dark.”

“One would think.” Cobb stuck his unlit pipe in his mouth. He said he didn’t smoke in the coach out of courtesy for her since she had a delicate stomach. His “courtesy” served as a strategy to minimize the chance of her vomiting in his nice steamcoach and give him the continued appearance of being a good stepfather, but Louisa appreciated it nonetheless.

She would ask who resisted, but she had already annoyed him earlier with her questions, so she decided to find out through other means. How, she wasn’t sure, but she did have tea at Eliza Adams’ house. The woman had her pulse on anything in the city—country, really—that could be scandalous. And Eliza loved to talk about all of it.

The coach slowed as they approached the square where the rally to stir up excitement about the project was to be held once the people returned from church. Louisa looked out of the window at the gathering crowd. In spite of the drab weather and predominance of black outerwear, a few spots of color showed through. A blue feather on a hat, the flash of a crimson skirt—likely a lady of ill-repute—the green sleeve of a dress under a too-short cloak…

Finding the colors was like a treasure hunt, and Louisa gave herself a point for each find, double for purple, her favorite color. So engrossed was she in the hunt that she almost missed the flash of a face she had to search her memory for—Harvard professor Artemus Malloy.

What is he doing all the way down here? But she’d encountered him at the trolley station, and she’d been searching for the woman from this area who had brought Louisa the locket.

Perhaps he lived here among the laborers and day-hires?

An odd place for an engineering professor to live. But then, I don’t know how much money they make. Perhaps I should look into that if he tries to pursue his suit with me.

He disappeared into the crowd, but not before tipping his hat at Louisa. The steamcoach pulled up to the bunting-wrapped fence around the stage, and one of the policemen opened a section for them to pull through. He, too, tipped his hat.

The vehicle stopped beside a small tent behind the stage, and a guard opened the door and held a curtain aside.

“No sense in freezing while we wait for the festivities to start,” Cobb said.

Some of the spectators nearby booed, and a piece of sleet landed on Louisa’s neck, causing her to shiver, but when she looked up, nothing else fell from the sky.

“I’m going to walk around to settle my stomach,” she said and sidestepped the open curtain. “Hiding from the cold isn’t going to help you win over the crowd.”

“I’ve done enough for them.” Parnaby dismissed them with a shrug. “As for you, clear your head if you need to, but don’t get too close to the barriers. They’re there for a reason.”

Parnaby told the guard to stay with her and then ducked into the tent, leaving Louisa and the man outside. He didn’t meet her eyes, and Louisa sighed.

“Are you cold?” she asked.

He nodded, still not looking at her, and his teeth chattered beneath his clenched lips.

“Go stand where it’s warmest, and you can keep an eye on me.”

“Thank you, Miss. Some of the others have a fire going in a bucket beside the stage. Come warm up if you need to.”

“I will, thank you. And what is your name?”

“Greely, Miss. Arvind Greely.”

“Arvind Greely,” she repeated to make sure she would remember it.

“Aye. And make sure you stay away from the fence. Wouldn’t take a second for a pretty bag like yours to disappear in this part of town.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She paced through the small space they’d fenced off beside and behind the stage, always keeping Greely in sight or making sure he could see her.

She’d just passed the corner when someone in the crowd hissed, “Pssst.”

Louisa wheeled around to see Artemus Malloy standing just out of sight of the guards. She ambled over, ostensibly to check a corner of the bunting.

“Why, Professor Malloy, what a pleasant surprise.” She batted her eyelashes.

He leaned over the fence and glanced right and left before saying, “I can’t linger, but I wanted to tell you to get back in your steamcoach and get out of here. What was Cobb thinking, bringing that coal-burner here? The people are angry enough. They haven’t been able to heat their houses in weeks.”

“He’s giving them something they want—gaslight—to distract them from what they don’t have.” She tried to put as much conviction behind the words as Cobb had.

“That’s a poor excuse. Trust me—you need to leave. This is no place for a girl like you.”

“I’m from this part of town,” she snapped, and she knew it was true. “My mother and I lived here before she married Parnaby.”

“I’m well aware of that, but are you? Do you even remember living here?”

“Vaguely.” She imitated one of Cobb’s hand waves.

“That’s what I thought.”

Shouts behind Louisa made her turn around, and she gasped. The bucket the guards had been using for their fire had tipped over, and flames flowed through the bunting and over the corner of the wooden stage. A gust of wind blew the smoke in her direction, and Louisa coughed.

With a shout, the crowd surged toward the fence and the stage.

Henry Davidson opened his eyes to dim light outside his window that told him the day would be gloomy.

Fitting for my last day on earth.

He preferred the clouds to sun, particularly if they spit a fine mist, as they seemed to do when he rose and looked out the window.

Something fell on his left foot, and he looked down to see the dried remains of the poultice Colin had put on his wound the night before sitting atop his toes. It had stung and smelled horrible, but the Irish medicine seemed to have done the trick. The gash on his leg still had angry red lips, and the muscles moved stiffly but without pain. For that he was thankful.

A shadow moved in his peripheral vision, and he turned to see an apparition he’d come to call the Green Lady standing by his washstand.

“Perhaps we’ll be able to talk tonight,” he said.

She c****d her head, showing the gash at her neck, but he ignored the grisly wound. The girl had been beautiful in life, he was sure, with black hair and eyes of a green so dark he had thought them brown at first. He’d been frightened of her when she’d initially appeared, but when she proved merely curious, not harmful, he came to welcome her, the only woman he could speak whatever came to his mind with. She never stayed long or spoke to him, but she’d become a familiar presence.

“I fear I shall be a ghost like you before the sun sets,” he told her.

She straightened her head and shook it with a bemused expression as if to say, You living ones are too anxious.

“No, I’m serious.” He sat on his bed. “I and my men have failed, and my bosses will be unhappy with me. They’re already angry I haven’t managed to gather enough evidence against Parnaby Cobb.”

The apparition shrugged and faded away. Perhaps she didn’t understand. But he felt she did, that she thought he was overreacting. And that’s why I don’t have a real wife or anyone else, even beyond the restrictions of my work. He’d never felt understood by women, who didn’t typically have patience for his seriousness. The only one he’d met that he felt he could have come to an understanding with was already betrothed when he’d met her and now was married, a much better arrangement for her.

Henry shook his head. Lamenting over something that never could be almost sat worse with him than facing his doom, although he guessed taking stock of his life was to be expected. He dressed without help and limped downstairs, sinking into a chair at the table with an exhale of relief. His leg gave a warning throb. The clock on the kitchen mantle said it was nine o’clock, two hours before he was to meet the mysterious person in the alley.

“How are you feeling?” Colin asked. He set a plate of eggs, rashers, and toast in front of Henry.

“Better, thanks. Your poultice worked wonders.”

“Good. You should take it easy today, rest the muscles.”

Henry snorted. “Right. I’ll do the best I can, but there are no guarantees.”

“There never are, are there?”

“That’s the truth.”

“Oh, and this arrived early this morning.” Colin handed him a telegram.

Henry’s shoulders slumped when he read it. Of course Iris and the others hadn’t managed to retrieve O’Connell. Rescuing Radcliffe now assumed double importance—if he didn’t, Cobb would be all too able to force O’Connell to do what he wanted by threatening his friend.

Henry ate but didn’t pay much attention to the food, although Colin had once again proved to be an excellent cook. He’s wasted in this organization. Some unlucky woman is missing out on a great husband.

That was one thing Henry had no delusions about—he would have no idea what to do as someone’s mate. He had basic skills and could take care of himself, but as for others… He barely knew what to do as a leader of his merry little band and much preferred to work solo.

He spent the next two hours organizing the strategy room so that if he never returned, Colin would have an easy time continuing. The men came in and spoke with him briefly before heading out to continue the search for Chadwick Radcliffe. Henry reviewed the plans with them and hoped someone would have something to tell him before it was time to meet with Violet and Hobbes that afternoon.

But first… Henry limped back to the kitchen and through the back room, where he grabbed one of the large cloaks the men used during inclement weather and at night to conceal their body shapes and faces. He was doubly grateful for the gray day and mist, which justified his apparel. He walked down the alley behind the buildings, and when he turned a corner, he found himself cloaked face to cloaked face with a mysterious figure.

“Henry Davidson, I presume?” the other man asked the question in a gravelly voice.

“You are correct.” Henry wanted to lean against the wall but held himself upright.

“You came alone?”

“Yes. I can only fit one of me in this cloak.”

A harsh laugh. “As expected. And what if I were to ambush you with some of my colleagues and make you disappear?”

Henry shrugged. “My day is likely not to end well. You would only be advancing the inevitable.”

“Ah, a fatalist, I see.”

“I didn’t come here to be analyzed.” Henry’s leg throbbed. “What do you want? How did you get in my bathing room?”

“You know as well as I that the alley is narrow and the roofs connected. You should be more careful about locking your windows even if you are on the fourth floor.”

“Ah, right.” Not that it will matter to me, but I’ll mention it to Colin.

“We want to help you, Inspector. You have the power to do something we want, and we have the ability to retrieve your Doctor Radcliffe.”

The only thing Henry was certain of was that the man knew too much, and he fingered the revolver at his belt.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Inspector. I do have others here, and they will not hesitate to eliminate you should you draw a weapon on me.”

“So this is an ambush.”

“No, it’s a discussion.”

Henry pivoted a quarter-turn to check behind him. He couldn’t see anyone, but he was also conscious of the space above him and the dead eyes of windows that gave no light but could conceal someone.

“I need proof you can help me.”

“We will deliver Doctor Radcliffe to your headquarters at three o’clock this afternoon. In return, you will allow Paul Farrell to go free when you have the chance to apprehend him.”

“Cobb’s favorite inventor?” Henry scoffed. “Never. He knows too much that can help me finally get Cobb.”

“Then you will never see Radcliffe alive, and your own life continues to be in peril.”

Henry mentally calculated the costs of cooperating. His men were excellent trackers. If anyone could find Radcliffe, they could. And if they couldn’t, it was unlikely anyone else would succeed.

“Fine,” he said and put a hand out for the other man to shake. “If you deliver Radcliffe to me, I will let Paul Farrell go if I have the chance to catch him.”

They shook hands, and the other man stepped back into the shadows, which wrapped him in their gloom. Henry allowed himself a brief lean against the wall.